


Suspended Seconds

by demiguise



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Boys Being Boys, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, KUROO IS A DORK, M/M, boys doing feelings, give kenma a break, kuroo stop talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 09:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13633083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demiguise/pseuds/demiguise
Summary: Kenma does not exist in good or bad days. Kuroo wants to know if it’s a good or bad day. Both boys learn new things.Or the one where Kenma fights with (at!) Kuroo, and very much needed conversations happen.





	Suspended Seconds

**Author's Note:**

> Please read: this work has been reuploaded. Due to an unfortunate accident, it got deleted-- have brought it back, but it does mean I lost all of your wonderful comments which breaks my heart. Thanks for your support!
> 
> \---
> 
> Just some kuroken for the soul.

 

Kenma opens his eyes and immediately worries his bottom lip with his teeth. The thing is, people, or more specifically, Kuroo, sometimes act as if he has some sort of on/off switch. (“Let me know when you feel a bad day coming on, okay, and I’ll be there to turn it into a good one!”) Kenma knows the sentiment sprouts from good intentions, but he hates it, would prefer if Kuroo remained oblivious to this whole ordeal.

There are no good days or bad days. Just hours within the days that fluctuate like the tide of the ocean; low at certain moments, high at others. And what’s worse, Kenma doesn’t think he can fully differentiate between the low and high tides, he doesn’t believe there is a particular tide he prefers. He just wishes for stillness, maybe accepting a couple of ripples, not waves. He sighs and buries himself deeper into his warm blankets.

If only his ocean were a peaceful lake.

They have volleyball practice in exactly one hour, and Kenma knows Kuroo will appear at his doorstep in exactly thirty minutes, a wide smirk on his face, ready to drag Kenma out into the cold, endlessly chattering about what he plans to do during practice, how he plans to make the team stronger, how he and Kenma will reach nationals—

Kenma’s chest constricts. He shuts his eyes and wishes he could will himself to sleep. Anything other than feeling his brain going a mile per second, imagining all these scenarios that, according to Kuroo, must happen at some point in their nearby future and Kenma is just terrified because he can barely visualize making his way through the next hour let alone the next year—

His breath comes out as one loud gasp, and he opens his golden eyes to look at the slightly cracked ceiling.

This is neither a good day nor a bad day.

It is simply a day Kenma wishes would end already.

 

 

His phone buzzes, and with great lethargy, Kenma reaches for it. Of course it’s a text message from Kuroo signaling he better be ready to go in fifteen minutes and to meet him by the door.

He knows, oh, he knows Kuroo means well. But he can already _hear_ the text in Kuroo’s loud voice, can already hear the _shrill_ of the doorbell, can already hear his mother’s voice _cutting_ through the stairs, disturbing the contained anxiety he has going on in his room.

Rapidly blinking away the tears, he sits up, hurriedly finding the scattered pieces of his volleyball uniform and hastily packing his regular uniform inside his gym bag. By the time he is done, the doorbell is shrilling, his mother’s voice is cutting through the stairs, and Kenma’s barely contained anxiety is already spilling out of his bedroom’s door. A monster with expanding tendrils he can never seem to control. A final boss that seems to have no weak spots for him to attack.

Robotically, he finds himself in front of Kuroo. Kuroo, his childhood friend with the messy black hair and the shit eating grin. Kuroo, who for some bizarre reason does not get annoyed with Kenma regardless of how irresponsive or lifeless he gets. Kuroo, who has a magnetic personality that could easily surround him with endless supply of people that would give him the attentiveness and entertainment he deserves.

 

 

“Are you okay?” Kuroo’s voice is tinged with slight concern, which only makes Kenma panic with guilt. Immediately, he fishes his console out of his jacket’s pocket and turns it on.

“Fine. Sleepy. There’s a level I can’t beat.”

Kuroo laughs, and Kenma feels air entering his lungs once more. Dodged one bullet.

 

 

Lunchtime is hell.

He survives the team’s practice by doing what he always does: follow routine with minimal vocalization.

He survives classes by staring right at the board and carelessly taking notes. Inconspicuous enough to avoid being called on by the professors. His classmates leave him alone. His classmates know Kozume Kenma doesn’t talk much, loves videogames, and doesn’t seem to hang out with anyone else except Kuroo Tesurou and the rest of his volleyball lackeys.

Which is why lunchtime is hell. Not always. Sometimes. When the tide is low or high or the moon has made some weird gravitational pull and altered everything.

There are no good days or bad days.

Lev will not stop talking.

Of course Lev will not stop talking, Lev is Lev, all blazing sunshine and brainless bliss, and, for some reason Kenma cannot fathom, a determination to become Kenma’s friend.

“And anyway, I was reading about how the speed of the ball can really make it or break it, you know, and I thought, what if we try different ball speeds to different _me_ speeds and maybe—“

“Shut up, Lev.”

“Stop harassing Kenma, Lev!”

He is grateful for Yaku, on most days. Fiercely saintly Yaku. And even today—today—the bickering between him and Lev does not put him at ease, just causes a small migraine to burst, right there on the corner of his right eyebrow, pulsing with tiredness and resentment and—

“Are you okay?”

There’s a bento box dangerously close to his face, and a mildly concerned Kuroo staring at him.

 _What if I said no? What if I yelled, asked to be left alone? What if I stand up right now and march out and refuse to see them until I’m better? But what if I’m not_ —

“Fine. Long day. Teacher called on me during math.”

Kuroo ruffles his hair good-naturedly, a bark of a laugh accompanying the action.

“Well! Only a few hours of this torment left, kitten, brighten up!”

Kenma sighs.

There are no good days or bad days, only hours he attempts to keep under his control. Dodged two bullets.

 

 

The walk back is a disaster.

It starts well. It starts like all of his walks back home have started for as long as he’s been in school: Kuroo waiting for him by the school gates, waving enthusiastically as if they are about to go on a grand adventure instead of some smelly, crowded subway station.

They make small talk. Or, actually, Kuroo chatters away while Kenma hums and makes small noises to indicate he’s listening. They get on a train that’s not as crowded as Kenma feared, his mood considerably lifting (vaguely, but there, little victories).

It’s when the disaster happens.

“Okay, tell me what’s wrong, Kenma.” Kuroo’s voice is not tinted with concern, or worry, or anger, or anything really. Just a spread of determination Kenma rarely hears directed at him. This is the tone of voice Kuroo reserves for pre-game talks. It is strong, slightly forceful, expecting an immediate response.

Kuroo never demands anything from Kenma. Everything is always presented in the form of a question, the illusion and expectation that Kenma has a choice. He opens his mouth to give an answer Kuroo will be satisfied with, when he is interrupted.

“Don’t say it’s nothing. Don’t say you’re fine. I was stupid enough to believe you the first two times but you haven’t played your game once since we started heading back home. So, what’s wrong?”

“Ran out of battery.” The excuse is rushed, lame, too hasty to be considered a regular Kenma excuse.

“You’ve never had a battery run out on you in the last ten years, Kenma.” Kuroo takes a deep breath, he is trying, and that just makes this situation all the more unnerving, “So, what’s wrong?”

The train stops. People get on. Loud people, people taking up too much space, people smelling different smells, smells that remind Kenma of food, how he barely touched his lunch, smells that remind Kenma of the locker room, how he skipped the shower and was stuck with an annoying lingering whiff of sweat for the rest of the day, how it made his uniform’s collar stick to the back of his neck for the first class, and how he couldn’t even concentrate on what the teacher was saying because the sensation of fabric glued by sweat was driving him insane—

Kuroo opens his mouth.

There are no good days or bad days. This is just a disaster.

“Nothing! Shut up. Just, shut up, Kuro. Leave me alone. Don’t ask me what’s wrong, don’t walk me home. Just. STOP.”

He never registered standing up. He never registered the people around him growing quiet. Kuroo is not mad, Kuroo is not shocked. Kuroo is just staring at him with his mouth slightly open because this is not a regular Kenma reaction, because Kenma has ruined the entire day by not coming up with a perfectly decent excuse—

The bodiless voice announces their stop.

It is already a day of irregularities.

Kenma runs out.

Kuroo doesn’t call his name. Kuroo doesn’t rush after him. Kuroo doesn’t walk him home.

 

 

Kenma is launching himself on his bed before he can even catch his breath. His vision is blurry with tears, not for screaming at Kuroo but out of sheer embarrassment because Kozume Kenma does not have dramatic outbursts in public spaces.

His phone is eerily quiet. There is no doorbell shrill. He, at long last, has the silence he dreamed of.

He hates every single second of it.

Critical hit.

 

 

His room is shrouded in darkness when he finally opens his eyes.

Faintly, as if blocked by thick glass, he can make out the television coming from the living room. His parents must be back from work. His head is pounding. Kenma turns on his side, absentmindedly reaching out for his blanket because there’s a slight chill despite the heater being on—

And touches something that is decidedly _not_ his blanket because it is fleshy and bony and—

“Don’t scream!” A hand covers his about-to-scream mouth. Kuroo is looming over him, in the middle of the night, in his darkened room.

Kenma stares. This is not a typical Kuroo thing to do. Burst into Kenma’s house unannounced, yes. But burst into Kenma’s room while he is passed out due to emotional exhaustion and just watch him sleep ( _creepy_ ), no.

Kuroo stops covering his mouth when it looks like Kenma will not scream. Kenma doesn’t scream. Kenma just narrows his eyes, unsure of how to navigate this uncharted territory.

Kuroo seems to be having similar thoughts because he is looking around Kenma’s room as if he has never seen it before, one hand massaging the back of his neck in clear nervousness.

“I…well. We had a fight. No. Wait. You had a fight. With me. _At_ me. Because I never voluntarily joined this fight, so I’m not part of it. But I _am_ involved—“

“Kuro.” His voice is scratchy due to lack of use, coming out as a faint mumble.

“Which is fine! This fight, I mean. It’s fine. Obviously not yay I’m glad it happened, fine. Because I don’t want us to fight. Or you to fight. At me. However, communication is important. Even if it’s just you yelling in trains and me being idiotically quiet--”

“Kuro.” Kenma reaches out to place his hand over the rambling boy’s mouth. Kuroo seems slightly terrified, unsure of what to make of this Kenma after having witnessed…unusual Kenma.

Kenma sighs, slowly lowering his hand.

“I’m not going to yell again. That was wrong.” He is still embarrassed, dammit. And what’s worse, whatever figurative volcano was about to explode back on the train seems to have slightly dwindled, become dormant with the unplanned nap.

“No, it wasn’t wrong. I liked it.”

“You…liked me…yelling at you?”

Kuroo sits up, his tall figure scooting closer to Kenma, who is still resting against the pillow.

“No! Yes! Well, you told me—shouted—how you were feeling. Even better, you _showed_ me how you were feeling and that’s great because we can work with that.”

At least the rambling has stopped, but now Kenma does not even know what to make out of this.

“I always tell you how I feel. You ask what kind of day it is—”

“And that’s bullshit. And dumb of me to ask. I thought about it, when you ran away. Erm, stormed away, from the train.” Kenma can feel his cheeks reddening, not wanting to revisit that moment.

“Like, what’s the point of you telling me if it’s a good day or bad day? And, I tend to ask you in the morning, as if you can magically just DECIDE how the rest of your day is going to be. And that’s just dumb, Kenma, and I’m sorry, sorry that I’ve been forcing you to cram your whole days into two ambiguous adjectives when—am I, am I rambling again? You’ve gone quiet.”

Kenma stirs uncomfortably, “I’ve been quiet for the majority of this exchange.”

Kuroo clears his throat, “Yes, but this is your pensive quiet. Not your keep-talking- Kuro-I’m-kind-of-listening quiet…”

Kenma feels the beginning of a smile forming, “You categorize my silences?”

Kuroo coughs, and Kenma can almost 100% bet that he’d see a blush on Kuroo’s face if the lights were on.

“Well, yeah. I notice, these things. About you. Obviously don’t do a very good job about it because I kept asking you to categorize your days which is just _dumb_ —”

“Yeah, we have established that. Very strongly.”

Kuroo is quiet this time. Kenma takes it as his cue. He gingerly brings himself to a sitting position, almost face to face with Kuroo.

“You’re right. I don’t think my days are just good _or_ bad. They’re just days. Sometimes so long I think I’m going to go insane. Sometimes so short I wish I could relive parts of it. But they’re just days…and, maybe, I just want each day to be a new day, not a day I can box into a category. I want to leave the uncertainty open.” Kenma takes a deep breath, recovering from such an unusual homily.

He feels Kuroo’s own breath leaving him in one big woosh.

“I don’t mind new days as long as you’re in them.”

“What?”

“What?!” Kuroo is panicking, and flustered, and looking like he’s ready to jump out the opened window (source of cold!)

“That’s…kind.” Kenma wrinkles his nose, because his chest is doing an unexpected flip, and he’s not sure what to call it. He backs up slightly when he feels—barely sees—Kuroo grinning, and Kenma nearly groans at his mistake.

“I am always this kind, kitten.” The suave, stupid Kuroo has returned and Kenma feels both relieved and infuriated.

“Actually, more than kind. It’s sweet. You’re sweet, Kuroo.” Kenma is so grateful it’s dark. But he can sacrifice some cheesiness for the sake of completely dismantling Kuroo with such phrases.

Kuroo, who is sputtering and dangerously close to falling off the bed. Because Kenma just called him sweet.

Kenma, taking pity on the sounds coming out of Kuroo's mouth, saves him from his demise by grabbing him from the shirt and pulling him back towards him. They are close enough to make out the expressions on each other’s faces.

Uncharted territory.

Perhaps it’s the proximity. Perhaps it’s the familiarity. Perhaps it’s the combination of sweetness and kindness that always seems to be part of Kuroo’s general life equation when it comes to Kenma that extinguishes all forms of embarrassment and awkwardness between them. Perhaps it’s Kenma himself that makes Kuroo brave.

Kuroo, messy hair and shit eating grin (currently absent) Kuroo, tentatively wraps his arms around Kenma, allowing the partially-blond boy to rest his head on his chest.

This closeness, this gentle pressure of skin against skin is not new, it’s expected, welcomed. This is not uncharted territory, and yet it is.

“I don’t care what kind of day you’re having. As long as it’s a day I can be there for you.”

Kenma smirks, “That’s twice in one day you’ve been smooth with words, this must be an anomaly-filled day.”

“Hey! I’m trying!”

Kenma’s hands wrap themselves around Kuroo’s waist. He can feel Kuroo’s heartbeat increasing.

“I like this. You trying.”

Kuroo chuckles softly, his chin resting on top of Kenma’s head.

“For you, always.”

A breeze. Kenma frowns and pushes Kuroo away.

“Now go close that window, I’m freezing.”

 

 

As Kuroo untangles himself, whining about his chivalry to climb in through the window not being appreciated, Kenma watches him, patiently memorizing the curve of his jaw, the softness of his sharp eyes.

There are no good days or bad days. There is an ocean, sometimes ferocious, sometimes still with anticipation, sometimes shrouded in sunset, sometimes unseen with storm. There are no days he can scientifically categorize, only hours he can count through.

As Kuroo returns to bed, Kenma feels the ticking stop.

The clock restarts, and a new moment beats to life.

 

**Author's Note:**

> There is just a certain kind of peace I get from writing these two. I never feel I have to push anything for their relationship to feel natural, you know? Anyway, long live flustered!Kuroo.


End file.
